


The Missing Miss Lyons

by TheodoreBear



Category: The Misfits (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Angst, Disappearance, Fluff, Mafia AU, Multi, The Misfits Podcast, misfits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-02-16 08:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheodoreBear/pseuds/TheodoreBear
Summary: Cameron Fitzgerald thinks he has it simple. He works as a photographer for the Melbourne Mail, the biggest paper in the city. Everything is normal, until a group of troublemakers enter his life saying that he’s the only one that can solve his childhood best friend’s disappearance.Cam’s life is thrown through a loop when he’s introduced to four misfits that all have a connection to the vanishing of Toby Lyons, and it’s up to them to dive headfirst into a dark side of the city full of drugs, alcohol, and crime in order to find her.





	1. Case Log NO. 0

   Sunlight beamed through the thin yellow curtains. They blew in the light morning wind, sun shining on his face. His closed eyes and nose scrunched up, and he rolled over. Black curls were laid across his pillow, and he reached out a hand to touch the left side of the bed. His fingers were met with cold sheets, and the fabric was curled into his fist. Foggy brown eyes opened, dreary from sleep, as the man sat up in the sunlight. He rubbed his face, yawning. With his eyes fully open, he stared at the empty half of the bed. His brows furrowed, and he looked around the room. He didn’t remember leaving the window open when he went to bed, but he simply assumed it was done by the other person living with him. He called out. “Love?” His voice was scratchy, and he coughed. The man stood, running his fingers through knotted black hair.

   The hallway was cold, and he pulled his sweater closer against his body. He still shivered. One living room lamp had been left on from last night, he remembered, but it was turned off. He swore it was left alight when he got carried to bed after falling asleep on the couch. Waiting for the other to come home, who finally did around two in the morning. It was now ten, and the other was nowhere in sight. The kitchen was spotless, like it had been yesterday, and no dishes were out of place. All of their coats were hung up on the hooks by the front door, their scarves and their hats hanging along. Their shoes were lined up against the wall, not one missing.

 

   However, something was off. Something was wrong.

 

He darted back upstairs, to their bedroom. He never opened the window, and he remembered the other always complaining about the draft whenever it was open. His heart sank into his stomach, but pounded against his ribs. His thoughts raced. His stomach flipped in his gut, and he suddenly felt sick. No one would do this. Who would do this? He couldn’t think straight. Where was she?

   “Toby?” He called out into the empty house. Only silence responded. The man shouted out the name once again, rushing out into the halls. The dining room was flawless, the vase of carnations sitting elegantly on the middle of the table. They were her favourite flowers, wherever she was. Their guest rooms were complete, with nothing out of place. Panic began to seep into his chest.

   Where?

   Where was she?

The man cried out his lover’s name again, tears welling in his eyes. His heart wrenched. Questions blurred his thoughts. He couldn’t think. He had to think.

 

   He ran back to their bedroom. He remembered feeling her climb into bed, remembered her touch on his side and her lips on his shoulder. They fell asleep together. He looked to the other’s desk, one that was always locked and kept tidy. It was where she worked, but the man was never told what the other did for work. He figured he could trust her. A paper was left behind, torn out from a notebook. Thin brown lines split the paper into even portions, and it stung his touch as he picked it up. Scribbled in Toby’s handwriting were four names in messy black pen. With a shaking hand, he folded up the list. It was slipped into his pocket for safe keeping.

   He knew who he had to find.


	2. NO. 1

It began as any normal day would, he swears.

 

   Cameron Fitzgerald, photograph reporter of the  _ Melbourne Mail _ , climbed out of his sheets at the usual time of 6:03. He always seemed to linger in bed for a few spare minutes. He took a quick moment to throw his bed sheets back into place and headed to the bathroom to freshen up before dressing for work. 

   He had been living in Melbourne for just over three years now. Cameron had worked at his local newspaper previously-- reporting major events and crimes-- before being offered a position at the  _ Mail. _ Granted, life was much simpler back in his New Zealand hometown. Much quieter, much less busy than it is in the city. So much had been happening that it’s near impossible for the paper to catch up to everything. He just needed to stay on his feet. Still, it was difficult leaving New Zealand. Saying goodbye to friends he’d known all his life, hugging his parents farewell before he boarded the flight to Australia. Cameron was abandoning all he knew to start fresh at the  _ Mail _ ; or so he thought for three years.

   The shower’s spray was cut to a stop, Cameron shaking the water from his blond hair before running a towel through it. He wrapped himself before stepping back out into his hallway apartment. It was a very small place, with doorways shorter than he’d like, but it has been keeping him steady. The apartment was painted white for a majority: an observation guests always seemed to point out. Cameron just replied that he liked to keep things clean, almost angelic looking. Getting his hands dirty wasn’t his thing, even as a field photographer. He served himself a simple breakfast of eggs (scrambled) and black coffee. Minutes later, he was back up on his feet to sort through his briefcase. He needed his camera, recent photographs of the city hall event from Thursday, and report summaries that he had to give in to his boss. Cameron crisscrossed across his apartment collecting everything. He scooped his camera from his desk and hung it from his neck for the time being, sweeping the photos he had printed into his briefcase. He took a moment to dig through his folders and files-- damn himself for not tidying up his own drawers. He clipped his case shut, and with a hat over his blond hair and a black coat on his shoulders, he was off.

 

   Fall was approaching.

It was a 20 minute walk from Cameron’s apartment to the newspaper’s office. When he got the gig, he and the company made an agreement on getting him a place in close distance. He lived on the East end of Melbourne, but he jumped from spot to spot across town daily to capture major events and any other assignments he had. Sometimes it would be protests, conference meetings, or parades. As autumn began, the weather became colder and so did the people. Cameron hung his briefcase from the shoulder strap and pulled his coat shut, keeping his head down against the wind. Strangers on the street didn’t seem as generous or kind, and everyone tended to get more irritated more easily. He had no idea what their story was, or how they got to where they were now. So he liked making them up.

   Hearing histories of people he didn’t know made things interesting. Friends, he found, have been hard to make, but he was getting along with his neighbours. Two boys, best friends. Nelson was studying psychology at the city university and Jason was an officer at the local police station. Cameron kept deciding different stories for whenever he wasn’t sipping a coffee with Jason while Nelson complained about his studying in another room. They both liked their coffee black. Cam imagined Jason has been looking up to the police since a kid, and it was what he wrote on his What-Do-You-Want-To-Be-When-You-Grow-Up sheet in kindergarten. Jason was always dedicated and protected Nelson like they were actually brothers. Nelson was a curious kid, only 18, and Cameron figured he wanted to know the secrets of the mind. Maybe to become the world’s next leading neurologist, to help other people, or to rule the world. Cameron wouldn’t mind if Nelson ruled the world; he was a great kid. He thought about the two as he continued down the street. Various people passed him, giving him a second-long glance or nothing at all. A black woman with big hair and shiny glasses smiled to him, and Cam guessed she was going to a meeting of the company that she’s CEO of, considering how well she was dressed. A man in a suit bumped his shoulder, a bitter look on his face and a briefcase. He just lost his promotion. Two boys were riding one bike, one standing on the back pegs, laughing about something. The one on the pegs probably told a great joke, maybe made a quip about the foul baseball inning from last night that doesn’t exist. It existed only in Cameron’s head.

 

   Only a few more blocks down the street and he was shaking the cold from his coat when he stepped into the office. The  _ Melbourne Mail _ ’s title was hung up above the receptionist’s desk in blocky black cursive. Cameron took off his hat, brushing back the blond hair, and nodded to the receptionist before stalking over to the elevator.

   The tick above his head met the 18 on its face, and the doors opened up for him. Cameron walked into the early morning office, sunlight just barely smiling through the windows, greeting other coworkers as he passed. He waved to Samantha, Sam as she liked to be called, from her spot at her desk. He high-fived Andrew, an editor at the paper, as they passed each other. Andrew clutched a pile of papers in his other arm. Cameron smiled and said hello to Nancy, a kind older woman who did the formatting of pages five to eight.

   Cam loved his job. No matter the time of year, all of the people stayed warm.

Cameron hung his coat and hat over his chair, setting his briefcase onto his desk. It clunked against the wood. The top was unclipped, Cam pulling out his papers and laying them across the desk. Summaries on the city hall protest, photographs of the participants, and the city mayor standing out on the city hall steps. Groups of hundreds were unhappy with recent decisions regarding the west end of the city. The west end had been under construction and development for nearly a decade, and the plan was suddenly canceled due to increased crime rates at build sites. A majority of the protesters came from the west, but there was support of their cause from all over the city. Cameron always admired the unionship within Melbourne. It was encouraging; heartwarming, almost. He collected his papers again, shuffling them into his case, and slung it back over his shoulder. He crossed the office of rows and columns of cubicles again, walking past the elevators, and being seated by his boss’ receptionist. Taking a seat beside a plastic plant, Cam bounced his briefcase on his leg while he listened to the muffled conversation past the thin wall.

_    “Sir, you don’t understand.” _

_    “I don’t wanna hear it.” _

_    “Mr. Skii, this could be a new lead on the disappearances across the city!” _

_    “It’s outrageous, that’s what it is! I don’t want to hear anything about this again, you understand me? It’s made up. You don’t have the evidence to prove it.” _

_    “It’s real, James!” _

_    “And where’s your evidence? There’s no mafia in this city. That’s ridiculous.” _

_    “Please, sir, I just need a chance.” _

_    “You’re not getting one. Out of my office. Now.” _

Cam watched the door open and a defeated young man step out. Papers of scribbled notes were clutched loosely in his fingers, and he kept his head down as he shuffled past Cameron. The blond coughed, adjusting his tie as he stood and entered the office, once nodded to by the receptionist.

 

   His boss looked up from his paperwork and let out a relieved sigh. “Fitzgerald, tell me you have a real story. Not like that last one, you probably heard?” Mr. Skii had well intentions, but he always focused on having the best stories for his paper. Cameron nodded, pulling his briefcase onto his lap as he sat down. “I do, sir.” The case unclipped and he spread out his notes, summaries, and photographs across the desk in front of him. James leaned forward to look over them, picking up a print of the city hall protest. A sign held up by a young black man that said, in bold red letters,  _ No More Death in the West. _

   “Tell me about this, Fitz,” Mr. Skii told him, his eyes trained on the photo past his dark glasses lenses. Fitz was a nickname a lot in the office seemed to call him by. He didn’t mind it, he thought it was quicker than Cameron or Fitzgerald. Cam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. He always had meetings like this, but they always wracked his nerves.

   “The protest on city hall revolved around the crime rates in the west end of the city. Over the past few months, there’s been an increase of drugs, alcohol, robberies and break-ins. No one quite knows why, really, but the people are protesting against the lack of movement the city is making to settle it. The union in charge of the protest were lobbying for more police involvement on drug rings and night patrols in that sector of the city.”  Cameron watched as his boss flipped through the images in silence. His brown eyes squinted past his glasses at the photographs in front of him. Various angles of the crowd, some pictures of some of the protest signs at the event, and a splayed image of the people in front of city hall. Cam had taken it from a rooftop, and he still couldn’t fit everyone into the camera frame.

   James hummed. He held an image of one of the protest leaders, reciting a speech to the rally from the city hall steps. Cameron was right in the front row, and got a great shot of her raising her fist, shouting to the crowd. Her features were covered with sadness and mourn, but determination for change. Not a single application that they were going to give up over this. James looked up at Cam, and squinted. “What about you?” Cameron paused, tilting his head in confusion.

   “I don’t understand.”

   “What do you think about it? The protest, the cause?”

   “Uh..” Cam stuttered, shifting slightly in his seat. Mr. Skii sighed, setting down the photo and stacking them. The brunette looked up at him over his glasses, and Cameron gulped at the suspicious look his boss gave him.

   “You’re a reporter that doesn’t have an opinion on your own story?”

   “I just take the pictures, sir.”

   “Yet you always know what pictures to take.”

Cameron fell silent, looking down at his hands in his lap. His legs were crossed and he almost felt embarrassed. It was true. Maybe he didn’t know what to think about problems like these because he’s never experienced them himself. He’s kept his hands clean with his work and life, and doesn’t like taking risks. He’s never seen the problems live, only when they’re in the midst of being solved. Cam looked up at the noise of shuffling papers, seeing James ple up his summaries and photos. “I’ll look them over, not to worry, Fitz.” Mr. Skii didn’t seem to like using first names. “You’re one of my best field photographers. I can’t afford to doubt you.” The blond man only nodded, taking his briefcase and standing. He was about to step away from the desk when Mr. Skii called. He glanced at his boss, who crossed his arms.

   “This is a tough world, Cameron,” he said. “Don’t let it tear you down.”

Cam hesitated to say something, and didn’t. He just nodded as he left the office.


	3. Case Log NO.2

Across Melbourne, far from the  _ Mail _ , a man stood in an alleyway. He leaned against the dusty bricks of the buildings towering around him. The North-West was known for its tall vantage points and labyrinth of streets. His newly-pressed suit jacket hung from his shoulders, limp, the beige and white pallet of the outfit making a noticeable contrast against the dark brick passage. Yet he blended in; melded into the crowd of strangers rushing past along the rush-hour street. From his pocket he plucked a business card of sorts: white with a black symbol stamped on. The information was handwritten on, messy but still legible. The pen was swiped, slightly smudged, but the man knew the number by heart. He had spent the past two weeks memorizing it. The logo was a bird; a phoenix, he assumed. Either way, he pulled his cellphone from his slacks pocket and dialed.

   From across the street, sitting in a cafe window, the other man answered.

_ “Hello?” _ The man glanced at the other, out of sight but still in perfect view. He was wearing a black blazer, white t-shirt beneath it. He casually sipped down a steaming drink from a styrofoam cup as he waited for a reply. The man in the alley gave it to him.

   “Is this Matthew?”

_    "Always depends. Who is this?” _

   “You’ll find that out soon enough. I have a job for you.”

Matthew’s attention was caught, and the man watched him set down his coffee. Matthew leaned back in the rickety wooden chair, clearing his throat. His eyes surveyed the noisy cafe past his dim sunglasses, and when he concluded it was safe to discuss work, he continued.  _ “Sorry, bud. Can’t do work without a face to put to it.” _

   “Oh, you can have a face.” Matt smirked, but it quickly fell when the man on the other end finished his thought. “At your two o’clock. The handsome fella in the suit.”

Matt sat up, staring out the window to the busy street. From across the road, he spotted him. A man with curly black hair hanging over part of his face, on the phone, in a beige suit. Matthew sighed heavy through his nose, and leaned back in the chair again. He took his coffee cup, eyes still on the man in the alley.

_    “Alright. There’s my face. What’s the job?” _

  
  


Two hours and sixteen minutes later, the same man in the beige pulled into a mechanic’s garage. The sign that hung on the building read  _ EVM’s Mechanics _ in bold red letters, the paint chipping over years of rainfall. As his car door slammed shut, a man stood up from where he was bent over, tending to an engine of a Plymouth Road Runner. He was dressed in a grey jumpsuit, the front and sleeves stained in oil and grease. The nametag over one side of his chest was threading but still readable:  _ Eric. _

   “Mornin’, sir,” his American accent spoke out. He rubbed at his hands with a rag before reaching out to shake the man’s hand. The other gave him a quick but sweet smile.

   “Eric, I’m guessing?”

Eric hummed, walking over to the car that had just rolled in. Black, sleek, a new frame of a car that Eric had yet to work on. “So what’s the problem today, sir?” The mechanic reached for the latch of the hood until the man in the beige slammed his hand against the car, holding the hood down. Eric’s eyes darted up, and he was about to speak out before the other beat him to it.

   “The problem isn’t about the car, Mr. Matthews. It’s more in regards to your.. Side business, if you will.”

He stepped back, crossing his arms, smudging grease across his chest. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Either you have a problem with your car, or you take your problems somewhere else.”

   The man in the beige only laughed softly between his lips pulled into a thin smirk. He nodded slightly, his black hair swaying in front of his brown eyes. “I’m no cop, Mr. Matthews. Nor do I have any intention of buying from you. But you do have information I’m looking for, and I will find out what it is.”

   “In your dreams, kid,” Eric spat. “Now get lost. I’ve got clients to fulfill.”

   “Oh? Well, you may have one more,” the other said, turning to stare at the garage door opening. In the other vacant spot, in rolled a sleek white sports car. Eric’s shoulders went slack, and his eyes widened past his thin-framed glasses. The door opened, and someone climbed out to lean against the side of the car. Matt looked across the garage at Eric, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black blazer.

   “Hey, Eric.”

  
  


After maybe five or six hours, the man in beige stood on a street corner. He looked over a crumpled paper pulled from his pocket, and stared at the third of four names. He hums, and stuffs it back into his pocket. He crosses the road, and approaches a bank.

   He didn’t expect this one to be so difficult to find. No databases he looked through had the name. He thought for the first three hours that it was an alias, or something to throw him off track. Maybe he was off the grid, in hiding, keeping on the down-low but not down-low enough to avoid his name being on the list. So, since police records weren’t giving him anything, he turned to asking around. He had been pointed to the west of Melbourne, which was rows and rows of twists and turns. Over and over again, no matter who he asked, the people who recognized the name directed him to certain alleyways and street corners; parking lots and sections of blank pavement behind buildings. 

   The man in beige walked past the bank. Between it and a convenience store, a deep alley cut through the brick, filled with dumpsters and bins. Against the brick, a teenager stood against the rocky frame of the store. A blunt hung from his lips and a hood was tossed over his head. He couldn’t even be twenty. 

   “Uh..” The man started off. The kid looked up at him, a shadowy look in his blue eyes. He took the blunt from between his lips and blew out a cloud of thick smoke. “You Mason? Mason Bradford?” Mason blinked harshly, waving the smoke out of his face and pushing it to the side. He squinted, staring at the other.

   “Yeah.”

   The man shifted his weight between his feet, and glanced out at the street. He usually never visits the West. “Huh. Alright. Wanna come with me, grab a burger or some shit?” Mason shrugged and sucked in another puff of the blunt.

   “Sure.”

   “Great. I’ll pay, I just gotta talk to you about a job.”

   “I got a job already.”

   “No, a different job. One where you won’t just be used as a dealer.”

  
  
  


The distant orange light of the streetlamps lining the road below bled through the thin curtains. Even at such a dark, late hour, the city still seemed to be teeming with activity. Yet not in this apartment. The white walls and the white furniture stood still, silent and steady. The phone rang, a bothersome tangent of song that tore him from his sleep. Cameron’s eyes opened on the third ring, and he pulled himself out of bed. It rang again, and he reached for it. The number was not one he recognized, but dazed and tired, he answered.

   “Hello?”

_    “Cameron Fitzgerald?” _

   “Uh..” He had to think about that for a second. “Yeah.”

_    “We need your help immediately.” _

   “We? I’m sorry, but who is this?”

_    “What is your relation with Toby Lyons.” _

Cam fell silent. It wasn’t a question; it was a demand. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, his jaw still creaking from the pull of sleep.

   “I… I knew him in high school. We split up once I moved to Melbourne.”

_    “She’s missing, Mr. Fitzgerald.” _

   “Missing? Who the fuck is this?”

_    “That, you’ll find out soon enough.” _

   “Excuse you? I need to know  _ now! _ ”

_    “Toby has disappeared. And you, sir, are the only one who can find her.” _

He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temple. He leaned forward in bed, holding himself up with an elbow on his knee. It was all too fast, too sudden. He just woke up, damn it. He got hired for a huge story regarding the suspicion of an underground mafia in town that afternoon! Even bigger, he and Toby haven’t talked in nearly 3 years. Why was he called, of all possible people? Cameron sat on his bed and glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:38 in the morning.

   “Christ..” Cameron muttered aloud. He sighed. “What can I do?”

Multiple voices on the other end buzzed through the speaker, inaudible and indecisive. The speaker returned.  _ “An envelope will be sent to your apartment, slipped under your door at exactly 4:58 this afternoon. Do not open the door, but take the envelope. Read it carefully, and get to the provided address at a quarter to 8 that evening. Take all of this into cautious consideration, Fitzgerald. Blissful living, love. Get some sleep.” _

 

   Just like that, the man on the other side left the line to hang dead at Cam’s fingertips. He hung the phone back onto the receiver and rubbed at his eyes again. His brain felt numb, and it whirred to process what had just happened. Memories flicked past the blank screen of his eyelids, and he sighed. He sat up, looking to the window. The curtains chopped up rays of faint orange light that split across his bedsheets. 

   “Toby…” He whispered, his voice fragile. “What happened?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the prologue to a story I'm working on. It'll be the first multi-chapter work I've posted in about two or three years, so go easy on me. I'm really excited to get this out, as I've planned it for a long time and there's been a lot of development for it so far. I don't have a planned posting schedule, so apologies in advance. I'll be updating tags as more characters, concepts and relationships are introduced.  
> I hope this goes well, and thank you. <3


End file.
